


The Nestled Streams of Spring

by Echojayden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echojayden/pseuds/Echojayden
Summary: Jon Snow, a bookworm and scholar instead of the  the bold leader with skills of sword unrivaled in the North that we know. His aims in this life are not only concerned with the sole pursuit of knowledge however, as he also finds himself obsessed with delineating a way of transfiguring his dreams into reality, this occurring after his coming to contact with the peoples of the South who differ greatly than those of the North, ambition back home often left cold in its frozen wastes.Ned Stark, no longer the blundering fool in concerns to the states and affairs of the realm and court intrigue, instead finds a new home within the capital, comfortable with the liars and counterfeiters of words galore, as he himself has become one and the same.Arya, now far more cunning, melancholic, observant of the patterns of people, even more so than her father at times who is surprised at the amount of understanding she has garnered of those that surround them. He finds himself even afraid at times.Sansa, a knight and true combatant at heart, wishing for nothing more than to be able to use her sword to pay for the deeds of life, glory a wish deep in her heart.The Stark family's changed, and their story with it.





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> To provide further context for what this story exactly is or will be, I guess my best explanation for it is simply that many of the characters within the world of Ice an Fire have changed, completely so in some, only a little in others, meaning their motivations and demeanor's and opinions of the world could very well be different and estranged from canon, meaning basically anything can happen from here on out with the conflict of these new characters in this established world of old. Things begin as they begin in Game of Thrones, with Jon Arryn's death and Robert's subsequent visit to Winterfell. Besides that, however, things are up in the air. Bran doesn't fall from the tower (neither does he catch the Lannisters and their incestuous relation) and Jon ends up going with the gang to the South. These are the two biggest changes from the beginning. From there they'll only get bigger. These characters, henceforth, are more or less versions of my own founding in their new orientations, and so they mostly won't be acting like what you have seen from the show or books, unless I've decided to keep them unchanged (Littlefinger and Varys and Tyrion are little unchanged. Joffrey is mostly unchanged, but further on there will be deviations. I'm not sure what to do with the rest of the Lannisters yet. I have GREAT ideas on how to change Tywin, however). 
> 
> Anyway, if any of this interests you, and if my writing proves to excite, I hope you enjoy! Should be fun!

What does a King look like? A pondered thought this precluded to be for much of the time in Jon’s mind as the Lord Protector journeyed from his humble abode in the South to the North, to Winterfell. And now, after the month’s journey at leisure, he was here, and the castle was a bustle of activity unlike the likes Jon had ever witnessed before. The crowding of the courtyard with people preparing for the royal entourage, making sure everything looked spick and span, clean without sight of grime, even the blacksmith’s forge wiped down and cleared, neat and ordered. The servants were all hasty in getting ready, themselves dressed to their best, newly sewn dresses and skirts, hemmed pants and tucked in shirts for the men. Even Mikken, the castle’s smith, was dressed in clothes befit for one of the local gentry, and his knotted brow and furrowed gazes gave the impression he didn’t like his new getup too much.

Jon knew he would have to join them too, down there, in not too long, once Father, or Mother, or anyone of the Stark children managed to find him out in his hiding spot in the corner of the passageway, a place he adopted most times to sit and watch the going ons of the castle. He would read here too, when given the chance, whenever Maester Luwin gave permission for the ancient tomes he kept up in his turret to be allowed a breath of air, or whenever Jon could sneak one away without getting caught. The histories of the world, of men and battles, of wars and death, often kept his thirst quenched most days when the desire for knowledge lingered and prodded with its talons of auspicious yearning. There was also the philosophies of religion, theologians with their own perspectives on life, spiritual matters converging with the reality of the now, that piqued his interest from time to time. But Kings, or rather _Kingdoms,_ at each other’s throats and the many complex details delineated satisfied a rumbling burn in his stomach that gave way to the gates of his imagination, opening up and speeding faster than any horse known or seen in this world. Which is why he was eager, more than ever before for any visitor, to see this man millions called “The King of the Seven Kingdoms”.

He had tried — albeit with diminished effort — to keep his imagination contained, as from the stories he heard from those who had seen or were known to tales of this king in the present day had all formed an image of someone not very...kingly. His best efforts were pushed to keep his expectations from growing too outward, too far in length, too stretched so as to accommodate the realities of this perceptively “normal” world. But even with such intellectual constraints in tow, his excitement had done little more than speed along as it was customed, reaching for new heights brandished in gold.

‘Jon. _Jon!_ ’ The words were sudden in pounding, the young girl who’d just dashed around the corner having come to a stop, Jon turning to see her walking towards him, annoyed in expression. ‘By the Gods, there you are. Come on out of your reverie then, they’re all waiting. It’s a bother, I know, but mother wants us looking perfect and clean for the _king._ Gosh, why did it have to be today of all days? Rodrik promised lessons today and all as well.’

Jon cracked a grin. ‘Didn’t Father say you weren’t to have any more lessons?’

A shrug and a mischievous wink was Sansa’s response. ‘What Father doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’

The one they called Snow chuckled. ‘That’s a moral fallacy if I’ve ever heard one.’

‘Stop with your fancy book-talk and let’s go! I’m serious, Father won’t be impressed if we’re late.’

Jon rolled his eyes, swinging his legs from the window sill to solid ground, standing. ‘How’d you find me anyway?’

The red-headed Stark placed a hand on her hip, mockingly stanced. ‘You’re _always_ here. It’s not much an act of hiding if you’re _always_ in one spot, either here or the library tower.’

The boy folded his arms. ‘You sound almost jealous.’

Sansa scoffed. ‘And what would I jealous about?’

‘My outrageously fine wit and exceptional foresight, of course.’

‘I don’t see how reading all day affords you anything but exceptionally _sore eyes,_ and in terms of your foresight, I can already say for sure that Father’s going to scorn you the moment he sees you for being late.’

‘No he isn’t.’ Jon prodded, only to make an argument.

‘Yes he is.’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Yea-uh.’

‘I’ll guess we’ll see, won’t we.’

‘We’ll see I’m right, yes we will.’

The two half-siblings smiled at one another, in a knowing way, seeing clearly through these clashes, knowing them only to be a game they played for sport, a battle of minds, or more aptly put, a battle of hard heads unwilling to capitulate.

Jon did, in the end, go with Sansa, not keeping a term of argument alive as he could clearly see she was agitated, having probably been sent off at personal command from Mother or Father to find him. Not that he had a choice to go. Being the bastard of Winterfell had less perks than advantages, Jon had found throughout the years. One of the greater detriments was his inability to not be noticed, either missing or otherwise. There was always an eye on him, wherever he went. The cautious whispers of, _‘That’s him, that’s the one they keep talking about’,_ said in the minds or soft tones of conversation of whoever he passed. That’s what he assumed, and what he knew, at the very least.

Two processions of people lined the walkway from the Southgate, all standing tall, at attention, the rumblings of wagons, cartwheels, carriages, and horses carried from the peerless beyonds of the castle walls to them all, eliciting a fervour of excitement in the air as everyone waited. The first line, to the left, and the closest to the Southgate, was where the Stark family stood, all dressed and polished, furs sparsely adorned, there being a nip in the air, a slight cold cutting deep. Sansa rushed ahead, peering behind to make sure Jon was still following, before taking a spot near Mother, who was dressed elegantly in a blue gown, a golden chain inter-linked by jewels at her neck, hair tied back in a fashion not usual to herself or any other woman in the castle; she was dressed to impress.

Father, standing next to his Riverland wife, upon noticing Jon’s late entry gave him a hardened look, but did nothing more than give a nod towards Robb, Bran and Theon who stood in the back row, indicating his own place to stand. Jon hurried quickly over, adjusting his tunic, smoothing out his hair, frowning a little, as he was apt to do, as seemed normal at the approach of veritable strangers.

The royal party, moments later, came gliding through the gates and into the castle’s courtyard, down the length of the walkway, a show of gold and red, polished armor glinting in the sun, dozens of banners flying overhead, the crowned stag of Baratheon whipping in the cold northern air, so far away from home. Jon knew none of the faces that passed, those of which he glimpsed, only managing to take particular notice of those riding at the head of the column, of the blonde haired knight as handsome and clean as a maiden, and the man-boy beside him, the _dwarf,_ whose hair was shined with the same colour, his face however scrunched and twisted, not as good-looking as the other in the slightest. There was also a tall boy, blonde of hair as well, slim, lithe, a look of arrogance ensconced on his face, and Jon noticed his eyes linger to Sansa, sporting a smile at her sight, but his sister’s immediate response was to squirm and glance away. Then there was, at the very head of the column, a big, burly man of matted dark hair resting at shoulder length, also covering in coarse locks his chin and jaw, hiding the sagging fat that pushed down to his neck. This however did little to help hide his distended stomach, edging and tumbling over a belt of gold, legs at the sides of his horse puffy but defined, strong. He was flanked by two knights adorned in white armor, and with Jon having read of the Kingsguard, having seen even artistic imitations of their splendour, he knew at once who this man was, and his heart quickly died, hopes dashed, the expectations he had unknowingly kept in mind having been thoroughly disappointed.

Robert Baratheon, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord Protector of the Realm, vaulted off his horse, cheeks red, teeth gleaming with a smile, and approached Father with a tumultuous excitement that was hard not to share, even though Jon was still wiling in the disillusionment of his current reality. The reunion of these two friends was heartwarming to see. Until of course Robb elbowed him from beside, whispering,

‘Bit fat for a King, don’t you think?’

Jon ignored him. It wouldn’t do any good to speak ill of a man he didn’t know. He would, as in most cases, only think it. It was his own fault anyway for not believing the tales. Heroes were left often to only survive within the pages of History. It was silly to believe in an existence otherwise.

‘ _Ned!_ By the Gods, you haven’t changed one bit! That northern face of yours is still as cold and stern as ever!’

Father allowed a smile, but Jon could see he was as disconcerted and surprised at the appearance of his King as they all were. And, with Eddard Stark being known to never pass a moment of possible comedic wit by, he allowed himself to say, smile growing wider,

‘If only I could say the same of you, your grace.’ Father said, eyeing the fat rolls of his friend’s belly.

The whole family stared at him. The household was known to his sallies, all teased and picked on in one way or another, but never did they think he would try it with the _King of the Seven Kingdoms._ Even the Baratheon Lord seemed surprised, eyes widening. And then, following a drawn silence of which Jon thought wouldn’t end, there was a great laugh, a bone-crushing hug, the big man even managing to raise his best friend a couple inches into the air, before settling him down with another bellow.

‘Oh Ned, how I’ve missed your japes! The Gods know how miserable everyone can be in Kings Landing, all serious and stern about matters of the crown. And they’re all saying the same things, all faffing about with the _‘Yes, milords’_ or _‘Thank you, your grace’._ But I know behind my back they teeter on like old housewives complaining about this or something other, always wanting more land or gold, a higher position in court. Someone with a sense of honesty, of truth. That’s a man I need.’

‘Lesser men often desire men in the troves down south, from what I hear from tales.’

‘The cold hasn’t blundered your wits at all, has it? Still as comical as you were as a boy.’

‘And you’re still as loud.’

‘By the Gods, Ned, do you know no end to your soul-crushing? Introduce me first to your family before you beat my balls cleanly off.’

‘I’m surprised you can still find them amongst the flubber.’

Another roar, a bellicose heave, a fit, leaving the Stark family to glance at one another, and at the scene, with undiminished confusion and surprise. Catelyn Stark gave her husband a reproachful look, trying to bring his notice to the littles ones, even though they already knew half the swears in the northern kingdom by heart, besides Rickon,  but a mother tried to protect her children at all times and instances from outside influence whenever she had the chance. Eddard Stark caught the half-glare, half-pointed expression and humbled himself in turn, face growing lax, the smile still there but hidden. The jests stopped as the family was introduced.

The tall thin boy with the golden hair turned out to be the King’s son, although the two barely looked alike, the crown prince having taken much of his appearance from his mother, and most strangely even a little from his uncle, Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer, as he was denoted in history, was the golden knight, a member of the Kingsguard (ironically), and his brother, the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, was the half-boy, a strange little fellow, his watchful eyes having fallen upon the Starks with inquisitive rumination, as if he were discerning something important from this very first look, this first impression. Cersei Lannister, the queen mother, had come along with her other children, Myrcella and Tommen, on foot through the gates, their horse drawn carriage having been far too large to make it through. Jon, in her presence, was struck by the beauty of the queen, her green eyes dazzling in the sun, wisps of golden hair fine and smooth washing down her back and pillowing around her shoulders. She wore a smile as she was introduced, but Jon could tell, somehow, that it was forced, beneath it hiding a pain or torment of something unseen. The bastard boy, wanting to keep the image of this queen untarnished, made out this reason to her simply being tired, the ride all the way from the south, from Kings Landing, having dampened her spirits by some.

‘Take me to the crypts, Ned.’ The king said after the formalities of introduction were finished. ‘I wish to pay my respects.’

The queen, in turn, was eager to speak up. ‘Can’t the dead wait, my King? We’re all tired from the ride and having had proper bedding in weeks. The crypts won’t be disappearing anytime soon.’

Robert Baratheon didn’t seem to take too kindly his wife’s remarks, glowering at her with eyes of malice, a burning rage, and Jon finally caught a glimpse of the warrior Father had spoken of during his reminiscences on stories of old, of the rebellion and the fight for the Iron Throne. The queen was led away by her brother in not too long, the tension dying soon after, and father, along with his best-friend, moved off in the direction of the crypts, the rest of the Starks left to make small chat with the lingering Lannisters. Jon, however, found himself barely in understanding of the conversation, as his eyes gleaned over the crowd and rested on a man. This man was still atop his horse, peering over everyone, face disfigured, half of it having corroded to the burn of a flame, the other half hardened, tight, a peerless void of which Jon could discern nothing but the outright look of a beast, a hunger residing, grumbling in silence, but it was easy enough to spot. He was so imposing, so scary, the moment this man’s eyes found Jon’s he quickly scurried his gaze away, clutching his hands timorously, heart having quickened. There was the urge to inch from his spot, dart away and flee, but he kept this scream of instinct bottled, avoiding a look in the direction of where this terror had been sourced, trying to keep his attention reserved in the simple pleasantries being passed from family to family. But no matter how far he drew his attention to other reservoirs it seemed, almost inexplicably so, that there prodded the constant inkling of threat, a voice whispering to ensure he was on guard, tense, at notice. He felt he was being watched, and couldn’t turn this feeling around, throw it away, no matter his logical reprimands.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He allowed himself, his eyes, to move to where only some time ago he had seen the face of a demon. And there again, with haunted dark eyes, scraggly hair matted to the sides of his face, weathered, old, _scarred,_ was the burnt giant whose menacing scowl seemed a constant and normal expression for him to make. And within the dark pits of his eyes, there refracted the timid boy of whom he stared, and Jon somehow thought he could see it all, the carnivorous sightings of death in those very depths. He thought he could see this demon’s own demons who lurked within and without. Jon’s gaze again searched for respite from such dangerous views, but he couldn’t, no matter the replacing thought materialized in mind, escape the memory, the _image,_ of what he’d seen.

He had gazed into the eyes of a monster, and there had found the reflection of a human face.


	2. Arya

News had spread fast through the castle, gossiping servants found talking of the recent events whenever an allotment of time came free for them to speak, to let known their own opinions on the matter, and the Stark family found out the truth amongst the revelry, Father’s explanation the night before on the matter having been far too late. They were going _south,_ the auspicious news had claimed _. To_ _Kings Landing._ Arya couldn’t be any more excited.

An actual city, brimming with people, exotic foods, strange events and happenings, ancient buildings towering over men, women, children alike, a whole new world to explore. And it would be _hot_ , or warm, at the very least comfortable, and there would be knights, ladies-in-waiting, courtiers with famous names, grizzled warriors whose renown stretched far out through the lands. But finally Arya would get the chance to see how a court was _really_ like, no longer forced to imagine it all from the tidbits of what she had read and heard from Septa Mordane or other tales travellers had regaled them with in the past. From what she’d heard Kings Landing and its brimming social ecosystem was, in being true to its name, where kings were made, and _not_ in the battlefield unlike what many believed. There was so much more to the world and politics, to the motivations of people and their whims that it should be heretical to believe the facile story of war being the sole conqueror of men. The truth was much larger and greater than what one war, or a multitude of wars, could pertain to affecting.

And Arya wanted to learn it all.

She never thought she’d get the chance. For a great part of her childhood she’d believed that this was it, that all her life she would spend it within the confines of these walls, ruminating within Winterfell until her death, never to see another part of the world, until of course she was married and shipped off, probably even further north, more bitterness and ice waiting her every day. But at eleven years of age the wish she had been dreaming of for years had finally come true. She wished the plan was to leave today.

There were, however, things to do first before their journey began, for both the king and Father alike. Things to pack, people to see, matters to order and prepare for the ride south. It would be a week, maybe more, before they would be riding off, Winterfell falling dimly out of sight.

Arya thought this all, excitement nervously plunged in joints and skin, while watching the boys in the yard spar, Bran and Tommen, the prince, taking their turns whacking at one another with their wooden swords, dressed in padded armour. Bran was the better fighter, by far, taking side steps here and there, as lithe and agile a young boy of nine could be. It was a comical battle to watch, Tommen amiss in all his thrusts and swings, Bran easily evading, making pirouettes out of harms way, not unalike to a dancer, his moves eliciting both laughs from the crowd, who so happened to be the crown prince and his servants, along with Robb, Theon and Jon, but also looks of admiration at a boy so obviously gifted in swordplay.

At the prince’s thudding to the floor, having been out-danced, outmaneuvered, at the fence the Stark boys and their Greyjoy brother whooped in jubilation, while the Lannister side kept quiet. Until Joffrey, with an air of indignance, spoke out,

‘Is the boy a mummer, or a warrior? It seems he would be better dressed in silks and a skirt than armour, to be allowed to frolic in the gardens than to have a sword in his hand.’

That got a roar from the men surrounding, most notable being the burned face dog beside him, the _Hound_ as Arya had learned to be his name.

‘Watch your mouth, Lannister. He’ll be a better fighter than you one day.’ Robb was quick to pipe up, everyone falling silent, staring at the heir to the North.

The Lannister boy went red instantly, snarling in the petulant way that only royalty seemed capable. ‘What did you just say, Stark?’

‘Are you hard of hearing? I said you better watch it, otherwise my brother will take those words to heart and come for you in battle one day. You won’t be laughing then, that’s for sure.’  

‘And you really believe he would be able to defeat me? You Starks are rather soft in the head. The cold must have freezed up all your wit and decadence.’

‘Aye, maybe. But I know anyone of us here can put you down with barely any effort at all. Even my sister might have a chance.’ Robb gave her a wink, and Arya felt a blush creep to her neck, the crown prince and his servants staring over at her.

The Lannister found Robb’s eyes again. ‘Your _insolence_ is ill-afforded, _Stark._ I however doubt your skill can match the words at your play. _’_

‘Well come on then, let’s go. Me and you, right now, one on one. But leave your hound at the gates and fight your own battle for once.’

There were snickers in the crowd, from both sides, and Joffrey, for a moment, looked stolid, having frozen in place. He glanced to his dog, who gave a mere shrug of indifference, then back at the northern boy towering with confidence. There was nothing he could do, the crown prince having run himself into a corner. Rejecting the offer would only reveal his great weakness, Arya knew. 

The heir to the Seven Kingdoms, after his moment of hesitation, nodded finally, hopping over the yard’s fence with a graceful jump, moving over to Ser Rodrik who had been congratulating Bran on his win and helping the two boys out of their thick armour. The master-at-arms must have not heard the bickering back and forth, as his expression turned to surprise as the Lannister approached.

‘Your grace, what—,’

‘Your northern twit of an heir wants a duel, and so he shall get one. No, we won’t need armour. I want the world to see the bruises splotching his body after all this.’

‘Keep on talking Lannister,’ Robb jeered, climbing over the fence himself. ‘It’s all your good at. There won’t be much left of you _to talk_ after this, however.’

Joffrey kept quiet, for once, angry and disgruntled, having already taken arms with the blunted swords Ser Rodrik proffered. Robb did the same, and Bran and Tommen were led to the side, watching on, the two bickering with one another on who would win.

Arya, in her excitement, had shimmied along the edge of the rounded fence towards Jon and Theon, wishing to hear their opinions on the matter at hand. Although she wasn’t all too fond of the boys, Jon being far too drawn into his world of books and words and knowledge to be aware of anyone outside his own head, Theon far too boring and complacent to have developed any characteristics of interest, these however were the times where they could come together as a unit, cheer on their siblings with the familial pride that often beggetted the largest of wars and smallest of insults. She wondered if this here, this fight, would be considered the origin of dissolution between the two families of Stark and Lannister in hindsight, once the future came to pass. Or perhaps it would somehow only build and bridge stronger bonds. _I very much doubt that,_ Arya was clearly aware, but all possibilities must always be taken into account if one wishes to understand present and any forthcoming events.

‘Joffrey’s nervous.’ Arya commented, to begin the conversation with her “brothers”.

Jon, having only noticed Arya, glanced down, smiling a little. ‘What makes you say that? He just looks pissed off to me.’

‘Notice his hand, his arm. It’s shaking, just a little. Not his swordhand, but the other. If Robb doesn’t win it wouldn’t only be disappointing, but immensely surprising.’

‘If Robb doesn’t win we’re going to nag him to death during all our winters to come for the fact he couldn’t put down a boy prince who’s as skinny as a stick. He might be taller, but there’s hardly any meat to him.’

Arya appraised her half-brother, up and down she looked. ‘Says you.’

Jon laughed. ‘Well I’m not the one out there with my honour on the line.’

‘Would you really consider this a test of honour?’   

‘It’s a test.’ Theon merely replied from the side, meek and quiet, as a mouse might squeak at having been found.

‘That’s a quite discerning observation of the matter at hand, Greyjoy. Good on you for providing us with the pleasure to hear it.’

The boy withdrew into himself further at that, and Jon gave her a frown, a reprimanding gaze, appearing in her mind like Father, if only for a moment. Arya didn’t care; the Greyjoy wasn’t of her blood.

The duel, the fight, a battle for the ages the minstrels would be singing of for years to come, was about to begin. Ser Rodrik, Arya noticed, was watching with nervous expectancy, and she couldn’t tell if this was caused by his fear of safety for the two boys, or if he too wanted to see the crown prince on his ass like the rest of the Stark family.

Joffrey was nervous, Robb too cocky, and the southern servants, knights, the kings men, were about to see the true strength of the North, the illusions of their own grandiosity soon to be torn, shredded, stamped into submission. That is until, in as quick a moment as lightning might strike, the two boys having nearly started toward one another, Robb at the very least already having taken initiative with the first step, a voice pierced and cut through the air, sharper than a chilled winter breeze, plunging with a fervent shiver as a blade of ice might slip delicately through unimpeded human flesh, knifing a path straight to the soul.  

‘ _Nobody. Move.’_

Lord Eddard Stark’s voice carried through the yard, even though it had remained a low grumble, a throaty imparting, disgruntled and vexed. Everyone turned to watch the Warden of the North swiftly move into the training circle, Ser Rodrik bowing his head as his lord passed, obviously embarrassed. Father stopped about a foot away from Robb, the boy staring up at him with a pinched look of sheepishness. Joffrey only seemed relieved, his breathing and stature having turned to normal, back straighter, more regal.

‘Drop the sword. Now.’ Eddard said in a tone less icy than he had used before, but nevertheless cold. Robb nodded, doing as he was told. The southern men were snickering, and Arya stared at them, malice swirling in her stomach, not understanding _why_ Father was doing this, why he had stopped Joffrey imminent humiliation.

The Lord of Winterfell bowed to the prince who looked as confused as everyone else, saying to him, ‘I’m sorry, your grace, but my son has other urgent business to attend to and will not be able to spar on this day. Perhaps another time.’

The Lannister stiffened, as if he was expecting some trick, a hidden kernel of deceit to be underlying the icy man’s words, but once he realised there was nothing of the sort to discern the boy smiled and nodded.

‘That’s fine, Lord Stark. I give you and your son permission to go and do what you must.’

Father bowed again, a shocking display of obsequious subordination that made Arya sick to her stomach, then grabbed Robb’s arm and pulled him towards the keep, the knights in the prince’s command whooping and hollering, obtuse and bland insults thrown the way of the departing Starks. And, strangely, Lord Eddard did not turn his head to dismiss them, but instead simply allowed them to be dished willingly. Arya glanced up at Jon, hoping there might be an answer whirling around his head. Being older than herself perhaps he had seen this type of behaviour before, behaviour which was so strange and foreign to the man they called Father. But he seemed as shocked as she was, staring blankly at the scene without a touch of whimsy that had been stocked at full supply only moments ago. Arya felt the need to ask anyway, the possible hope for an answer a compelling enough reason to reject the odds currently in favour of disappointment and risk it all. But, ultimately, she remained quiet.

Arya, Jon, Theon, two Starks and a Greyjoy, remained silent alike. Not a word passed their lips until they, Robb and Father, had disappeared. And even then there still clung that heavy silence.

‘You hope the Starks won’t always need their daddy’s to protect them in battle.’ Joffrey, the little shit, quipped. All the southern men laughed and laughed, the heir to the throne with a great smile on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this story, just to clarify to not confuse anyone, I've made it so that all the characters are two years older, this change obviously affecting the children far more than the adults. I did this as even GRRM has stated he wished he didn't make his characters so young in the beginning, and I feel their natural development into men and women in more believable if they are indeed closer to such an age range.

‘I heard you stopped mine and yours sparring the other day. Afraid of a little competition, eh?’

They were hunting in the woods close to Winterfell’s gates, the scraggly terrain difficult to navigate at times, especially with as many men who had come out to assist the king, but they, somehow or other, managed with resolute skill to keep from scaring off too much game. Robert was boisterous, loud, bellowing in his tones whenever he struck a kill or saw a possible one in sight. That didn’t help in keeping the element of surprise either.

‘Not afraid. The boy’s just not ready.’ Ned spoke, this careful deceit having been stowed away since his scene with Robb in the yard. He had known an excuse would be needed for the action, something to mask the true intentions behind the ordeal. Robert, however, didn’t seem convinced by the words, looking over his shoulder, slowing the courser he rode.

‘Not ready? Ned, by the Gods, he’s close to his sixteenth name day, isn’t he?’

‘Already passed.’ The Lord of Winterfell admitted.

‘We were sparring with one another at the age of ten! Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Ned.’

‘Not soft. Just cautious.’ Keeping his face stoic, calm, cool, was easier than he thought it would be. As the truth was, since all Cat had told him, of the letter from Lysa, of the Lannister’s possible handling in Jon Arryn’s death, there was a constant voice in the Lord Eddard Stark’s head, warning and foretelling of possible events, cautious dangers engendered between the two families that may be spurred at the merest provocation. Robb humiliating Joffrey had been one such cause for anxiety.

‘Let the boys play at war, your King commands it. One day they might not be playing, you know that.’

‘But they deserve their innocence, don’t they? For a little while, at least. The gods know we grew up too quick, put in the positions we were.’

‘But Ned, we had our fun! Breaking armies left and right, not knowing if this day or the next might be our last. It’s a time not many men live to survive, to know the sweet joys of such chaos.’

‘And we’re still here.’ Lord Eddard said wistfully, trotting forward.

‘We are, by the Gods hands or our own, it makes no matter either way.’ The King of the Seven Kingdoms gathered a faraway look in his eyes, staring past the trees. ‘I wish at times we could go back, if I’m being honest. To bloody ourselves once more.’

‘There was a freedom to it.’ Ned agreed, not knowing what else to say, although eager to follow any topic _other_ than the one concerning their two sons.   

‘There was,’ The king looked intent on correcting, ‘more than a man could ever wish for! Now it’s all meetings, matters of coin, who stabbed this or that in the back, graceful courtesies and the like. Dull shit, all of it.’

‘At least you have the respect of being king.’

A scoff came quickly from the large man. ‘The others take your respect. It’s all fake, deceitful lies so they can pester me to get what they want. You don’t know the half of it, Ned! You just don’t know.’

‘I will, soon enough.’

Robert grinned, yellow teeth amidst the black of his beard. ‘Aye, you will. You’ll understand the suffering of my last some fifteen years.’

‘I can hardly wait, old friend. Sounds to be invigorating.’

Robert waved a dismissive hand. ‘We’ll have our fun, don’t worry. It’ll be a merry time of bonding, me and you! Between the governing of taxes and whoring, of course.’

Ned let slip a smile. ‘Your wife appreciates this whoring, I take it?’

‘What else is she to do? I’m the King, after all.’ He slapped his great belly and roared with laughter.

The hunt led further into the woods for some time, their conversation taken by anecdotes of the past, the glories of their memories, the only topic they both seemed keen on ruminating on, until eventually it seemed all the game had scurried off to their hiding places, their horses and men doing nothing more than following the tracks of their own feet.

Arriving in Winterfell, grooms and squires of the knights in the kings processions were quick to lead the horses to the stables and ask of their masters if any deeds or tasks were possible of doing. Robert asked Ned if he wanted to try a few glasses of the fine Dornish wine he had brought along with him for the trip, to apprehend a drunkenly divine halo before the night’s festivities, and slapped his friend’s back, coughing in laughter at the northern man’s sheepish grin. But Eddard’s smile went thin at the sight of Jon not too close from the south gate, eyeing the two, his King and Warden, with a keen glimmer of apprehension that seemed always alit in the young boy’s eyes. This, however, was different to most other times.

 _He wants something,_ Lord Stark knew in an instant.

‘Perhaps the donning of our halo’s will have to wait. Jon wishes to speak on something, I’m sure.’

‘The bastard, eh? Go on then, do your duty. I’ll be in the hall feasting and dining. Though, of course, you already knew that, didn’t ya?’

‘Your two great skills must not go to waste up here in the North, your grace. The local populace must know of the royal pig making a dent in their yearly harvest.’

Robert roared, gave a loving punch to his all-but-blood-brother’s arm in jest, and sauntered off with his guard, looking as comely as a rich, fat king ever could. Ned, tugging his rider gloves off, finger to finger, moved towards Jon, the _bastard,_ a term everyone seemed keen on reaffirming, never to be forgotten. The boy’s eyes seemed to simmer as Ned got closer, as if his expectations, the dreams and excitement that were hidden within the recesses of a child’s imagination, were softening and collapsing, met indelibly with more probable realities.

‘What is it, Jon?’ Lord Eddard asked, tone soft, tenderly nuanced, only half-played, half a lie.  A promise was made, and a promise would be kept. _But I have my own promises to make, to myself no less._

Jon rubbed the outer edge of his arm, scanning the trees of the Godswood behind, the sky, before settling to the ground again. He took a breath, then out, then looked to speak, but hesitated again. It was becoming a tiring game.

‘Jon, don’t be afraid. Speak your mind.’

‘Where…’ He paused, frowning, as if assuming the question he was about to raise was stupid. ‘...where will I go?’

It was Ned’s turn to frown. ‘Go? When?’

‘When you leave, with Bran and Sansa and Arya.’

The question perplexed him beyond comprehension. ‘Nowhere.’ Eddard answered. ‘You’ll stay here. In Winterfell. With Robb, Theon, Catelyn. Where else would you want to be?’

Another breath, deeper than the others. ‘With you.’ He finally exhaled.

His eyes widened, an instant reaction. ‘To Kings Landing?’ Eddard Stark hardly suppressed the surprise in his tone. _No, not now, not yet._

‘Yes, to Kings Landing. And I know it’s a strange request, I know that it would be... _indelicate_ for someone...someone like _me_ to be at court, but I think I can manage there. It’s just I...I don’t want to be here for the rest of my life, father. It might seem strange, but these buildings, these walls, are more a curse to me as I approach the completion of adolescence. I will need to become a man, my _own man_ , soon. I can’t do that here. Not under Robb’s shadow.’

 _Ah._ Finally, the truth was spoken, and Ned had discerned the main crux of the problem. They had never taken a liking to each other, the two boys, the two _brothers._ They fought for one another when matters of family and name came into disrepute, but friendly they were not behind closed doors. Ned might have chalked it up to sibling rivalry, but over time he had grown to realise they were just far too different in character with similar ambitions to ever be friends.  And now Jon, it seemed, had thought to have finally found his escape.

‘The capital will be a hard place for...someone like you, Jon. I know you’ve already taken that into account, but you don’t know the greater extent of the tidings you would bring to such a place. People will talk. Whisper at your back. You’ll never have a moments rest from worry.’

‘I know all that, father, but that happens here all the time anyway. With that in mind, please, even so, give me one chance to come with you, to see it all, to see Kings Landing, and I will be forever grateful. If things go wrong, or I can’t handle the pressures, then you can send me back to Winterfell at your behest, whenever you see it fit to do so. I just...I just want to see a greater part of the world, father. For one point in my life, at the very least.’

Lord Stark rubbed his jaw, at the rough beard that grew there, and contemplated fitfully the knock-on effect and consequences bringing Jon to court would inevitably bring. It wouldn’t be all so bad, he supposed. Nobody knew his secret, and nobody would or be able to tell, not after so long a time, not with the truth being so pummelled into submission. But with this problem with the Lannisters, their own scheming and deceit too obvious in veractiy to discount, Jon’s bringing along might only introduce further problems than solutions, even if Ned couldn’t determine the exact _hows_ at this moment. He did, however, have the Stark look, truer than all his children, and so was safe in that regard. But even so, there was always the risk. The risk of _someone_ collecting the pieces and shoving them together into its respective picture. His mind went to Lord Varys, the spider, the eunuch, tales of his slimy web of deceit well-known through most of the Seven Kingdoms. But perhaps this could be a way to test the man, to test his seemingly insurmountable wealth of knowledge. Perhaps he was mortal in the findings of truths. Or maybe it was stupid to even evaluate the erudition of such a creature.

‘I’ll have to think it over, Jon. This is a difficult decision you’ve brought me, but I’ll keep it in mind the duration before we move out. You’ll know a few days before our departure of where I stand.’

The boy bowed, deeply, as if the matter was already settled. ‘Thank you, father, that’s all I could wish for. Thank you again.’ Jon, his son, truly so, set off across the courtyard after, towards the library tower no less. Ned watched him cross, understanding the boy’s wanting, his _craving,_ for an adventure outside these gloomy walls, those books he read so fervently only able to give him mere glimpses of the fantasies and wonders of the world, of the things they described in such pertinent detail. He wanted them true now, no longer the images in words able to quench the thirst of whom knowledge reigned supreme. Ned had been the very same at his age, or even younger, dallying with the ideas in mind of becoming a great knight and swordsman, or fighting a hundred battles, slaying many foes, travelling through all the known cities in the world, never staying in one spot long enough to remain comfortable. They were boyhood dreams, exempt from honor, duty, love, but they were powerful nonetheless, and Ned knew Jon would be miserable if his offer was rejected, if he were to capitulate in remaining here, within this dulcet cove of early winter.  He realised then, if he was to be honest with himself, that his decision had already been made.


End file.
